


egoista

by wordstruck



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aged-Up Characters, Alternate Universe, Dom/sub Play, Gun Kink, Hair-pulling, M/M, Mafia AU, Otapliroy, Otayuri Mafia AU, Otayuri Main Pair, Pliroy Side Pair, Polyamory, kawaiilo ren mafia au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 07:42:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10962762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordstruck/pseuds/wordstruck
Summary: Yuri knows: for Otabek, being around Yuri is like being near an open flame. Yuri knows that even Otabek has limits, has desires; knows that he himself is the subject of the hunger in Otabek’s eyes. Yuri has never restrained his overtures, dragging Otabek in again and again because he cannot get enough, because he wants. And Otabek, in the face of his filthy gorgeous personified destruction -- Otabek cannot always say no.OtaYuri ficlet based off kawaiilo-ren's Mafia AU / a whole lotta Daddy!Beka feelings





	egoista

**Author's Note:**

> So what happened? Well I fell into a discussion about daddy Beka/JJ with Krys + I crashed through @kawaiilo-ren’s [Mafia!AU art](http://kawaiilo-ren.tumblr.com/tagged/otayuri-mafia-au-comic) and I decided if I was gonna sin then I’d do it all the way, and now here we are.
> 
> [COVER ART](https://twitter.com/bunnyBANCHOU/status/866357506867552257) by the heckin amazing @bunnyBANCHOU on twitter!!!
> 
> (unbeta'd so you'll have to forgive me if limbs end up in weird places. if you spot something, let me know!)  
> feel free to hit me up on twitter at [@okw_tr](https://twitter.com/okw_tr) and tumblr at [@vktr-nkfrv](https://vktr-nkfrv.tumblr.com) for more yuri!!! on ice (and haikyuu) AUs, HCs, and general yelling

* * *

 

[cover art](https://twitter.com/bunnyBANCHOU/status/866357506867552257) by @bunnyBANCHOU on twitter!

 

* * *

 

Yuri is late, and he knows it.

He’s also being petty; being late is his preferred method for spite after Viktor and the others had left him behind yesterday, when they’d left to close a deal with an arms dealer. _No place for pretty little boys,_ Chris had said, ruffling Yuri’s hair as he followed Viktor out the door.

Petulantly, Yuri had flipped him off and stormed away to sulk in his room.

His phone jangles in the pocket of his leather pants for the twelfth time, and again Yuri doesn’t pick up. He’s only two blocks away; they can wait until he arrives. Beside, he’d had to make himself presentable.

When the car pulls up outside Viktor’s Nevsky Prospekt apartment building, Yuri’s only a little surprised to see Otabek standing outside, watching the vehicle come to a stop with an unreadable expression. The chauffeur hurries to open Yuri’s door, and Otabek straightens up off the wall to meet him.

Yuri’s out of the car and stomping into the building before Otabek can make any predictable comments about his tardiness, but unfortunately there’s no getting out of taking the elevator up together. Otabek holds his silence, stands off to the side, but Yuri can feel the disapproval rolling off him in waves.

(He has plans to rectify that, make it up to Otabek, but they will have to wait.)

It’s Yuuri who greets him at the door, smiling warmly -- too warmly for someone who can wield a knife the way he does, had done just the other day. Viktor and Chris are in the living room; Chris is lounging on the settee and Viktor is in his armchair as they discuss something in urgent French. The coffee table in the middle is littered with papers.  Chris looks up first, winks at Yuri, but Viktor’s expression is far less pleased when he glances over and spots his protégé.

Otabek, the traitor, simply moves to stand by the far wall.

“Yura.” Viktor’s voice is clipped, flat. He doesn’t move to get up; Yuri doesn’t move to take a seat, not even when Yuuri touches his elbow in invitation. He stands just inside the living room, openly wearing his insubordination. It actually makes Chris chuckle under his breath.

Viktor sighs and purses his lips.”Yura,” he says again. “Where were you last night?”

There’s a sneer tugging at the corners of Yuri’s lips. “Around,” he answers. He likes the way Viktor’s jaw tenses; it lets Yuri know the pettiness is getting to him.

“I told you to stay at the flat,” he reminds pointedly.

“No,” and here Yuri’s vindictiveness slips through, turns the word snappish. “You told me to stay _behind._ ”

(To his left, Yuri can see Otabek’s eyes tighten, the slightest hint of amusement. He likes Yuri brash and disobedient, cattish and provocative. _All the better for me when I take you down a notch or two,_ is what he says, when it's only the two of them, when Yuri pulls him to the bedroom with eager hands. And Yuri revels in the way Otabek handles him.)

Viktor's entire expression pinches, but Yuuri is quicker than his lover’s temper. A light hand on Viktor's shoulder is enough to make him purse his lips and exhale slowly, deliberately.

“Do not make me ask again,” he says, venom and velvet. Yuri feels the pout twist his lips; he's used up his leeway. Even Yuuri is looking at him pointedly.

“I went out,” Yuri says shortly. His hands fiddle with the hem of his oversized, maroon shirt ( _not his shirt,_ in truth, but there is only one person in the room who will recognize this).

“Where?” Yuuri's own question is calm but firm. Yuri minds having to answer to him less.

He glances at Otabek out of the corner of his eye. His voice when he answers is a smirk; his lithe shoulders lift in a shrug. “JJ’s.”

(He is watching for the reaction, and he gets it. Otabek's eyes flash, then darken; his shoulders draw back just a little. He cannot give anything away, and it's that that makes Yuri giddy; it's knowing he can push, and all Otabek can do is stand there, looking at Yuri and listening to Yuri provoke him in honey-sweet tones. It's knowing what will come _after,_ when they're alone.)

Viktor's own reaction is similarly conflicted. Despite the disobedience, it's now clear Yuri hadn't run off to make a mess either. JJ is their head of security, the one who provides the guards and protection. But Viktor knows that Yuri is flaunting this, how he toes the line and flirts with insubordination. How he has the gall to push the limits of his tolerance.

Yuri bares his teeth, tosses his head, bats his eyes prettily.

In the end, after a long moment of looking at Yuri with exasperation, Viktor clicks his tongue and flicks his gaze away. His fingers drum a staccato on the arm of his chair. “You have work,” he says flatly, and then he abruptly stands. Without another word he disappears into the back rooms. Yuuri looks at Yuri chidingly, then follows.

Chris exhales, one corner of his mouth curled up in amusement, and then picks up a folder from the coffee table. “Your target,” he explains, holding out for Yuri to take. For a moment Yuri is tempted to let it hang there, see if he can make Chris bring it to him, but there's a chilling bite to Chris’s levity that checks him. He takes the folder without comment.

“Don't worry,” Chris adds, settling back into the settee. “You have a few days to _learn.”_ The way he presses the last word through his teeth intimates the double meaning.

Otabek materializes by Yuri's shoulder, impassive but for the set of his jaw. Chris waves them off. “See him to his rooms,” he says absently. The _make sure he stays there_ is left unsaid.

“Yes, sir,” Otabek answers. Still, he waits for Yuri to leave first.

He almost doesn't; almost throws himself onto the other armchair to scroll aimlessly on his phone, just to be stubborn. But he can feel the weight of Otabek's gaze on the nape of his neck, on the shoulder exposed by the oversized shirt; knows Otabek is searching for marks, bruised red on Yuri's pale skin. He knows that the ones JJ had left are not where anyone can easily see, and that infuriates the man.

He breathes in the tension that bleeds off Otabek, draws it into his lungs and lets it intoxicate him. He lets the collar of his shirt drop a little lower.

Yuri turns on his heel and exits, lilting his hips. Otabek follows a few steps behind.

 

( _He remembers last night, indignation and insult. He's shut himself in his room, ignoring even Potya, sprawling out on his bed and staring at the ceiling. He's being made to wait again, made to stay back._

_It pisses him off._

_His temporary minder, Emil, is outside his room. The man is overeager and a little too naive. Yuri spares him a moment of sympathy before he hops out onto the fire escape._

 

_JJ is surprised to see him, and it makes Yuri grin. He likes catching JJ off-guard, dropping into his life like a stray cat. Thankfully JJ doesn’t ask, just lets Yuri in with an expression of blatant hunger._

_Yuri’s already half-naked by the time he reaches the bedroom._

_JJ needs no further invitation._

 

_It’s hot, and messy, and torrid. JJ drags his mouth over every inch of Yuri he can reach, biting at the curve of Yuri’s waist and the swell of his ass. He’s still half dressed, pants open at the fly with his cock sticking out. Yuri turns, parts his lips fervently, takes JJ in his mouth as far as he can go. He sucks like he’s being paid for it, revelling in the feeling of JJ coming apart beneath him._

_This is what he comes here for. Whatever authority JJ has outside this room is stripped by Yuri’s touch, Yuri’s lips around his cock; by Yuri pushing him down onto the sheets and climbing on top of him. By Yuri sinking down onto his cock and riding him until he can think of nothing else._

_When Yuri comes, it’s with his head thrown back and his back arched, crying out. He feels JJ’s nails dig into his hips, feels teeth sink into the meat of his arm as JJ follows soon after. He slumps forward against the other man’s chest, trying to catch his breath, put himself back together._

_JJ presses open-mouthed kisses down his neck, caresses the dip of his spine._

 

 _Yuri stays the rest of the night._ )

 

One floor up, Yuri saunters into his suite, tugging the elastic from his hair so it falls free and down his shoulders. After divesting himself of shoes and socks, he makes for the bedroom wordlessly; the quiet _click_ of the lock and hushed footsteps tell him Otabek is following. Yuri wants to turn, wants to see the expression Otabek is making, but he restrains himself.

When he steps inside, Otabek speaks.

“Sit.” The single syllable is enough to send a thrill down Yuri’s spine, the way it’s laced with bite and barely restrained desire. He complies, turning and settling on the edge of his bed, leaning back on his hands.

Otabek is eyeing him sharply, almost angrily. The tension he’d had to work to hide back in Viktor’s rooms is now on full display. His jaw is clenched; his breathing is slow and deliberate.

Yuri loves it.

“Were you going to tell me?” Otabek’s voice is measured, not loud. He stands just inside Yuri’s room; he hasn’t even taken off his jacket.

Yuri tilts his chin up, grins. “I didn’t know I had to,” he counters.

Otabek closes the bedroom door. Slowly, gracefully, he shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it aside. The gleam of the gun in his holster draws Yuri in. He licks his lips; Otabek’s expression darkens.

“You were told to stay here.” Everything about Otabek is a display of control and self-command, from the rigid slope of his shoulders to the contempt that bleeds through his voice.

“I was told to stay _behind,_ ” Yuri says again childishly, tossing his head. The shirt collar dips lower; the first of the marks on his skin become visible. Yuri can see the exact moment Otabek spots them. The man is across the room in quick strides, hand grabbing Yuri’s chin roughly and jerking his head up. The strain to Yuri’s neck and jaw is dizzying.

Yuri listens to the heaviness of Otabek’s breathing as the man flicks his gaze down to where Yuri’s shirt gapes open, revealing the collection of bruises and hickeys across his abdomen and going further down. The grip on Yuri’s jaw tightens, and Otabek’s thumb sweeps across his lower lip. Yuri parts his lips without hesitation, lets Otabek shove his thumb past teeth and press. He looks up in open provocation.

Otabek withdraws his hand, string of spit pulling from Yuri’s mouth breaking to dribble down his chin. He hauls Yuri to his feet with no gentleness. “Strip,” he commands. Yuri obeys.

The pants are the first to go, peeling off like a second skin. He leaves the lace boxers, relishing the hitch in Otabek’s breath as he takes them in. Then the shirt is up and over his head, exposing every last mark JJ had left last night. Yuri throws his shirt to the side and stands there, hips cocked and grin smug.

Otabek’s gaze drags down his body like the edge of a knife.

(Yuri knows: for Otabek, being around Yuri is like being near an open flame. Yuri knows that even Otabek has limits, has desires; knows that he himself is the subject of the hunger in Otabek’s eyes. Yuri has never restrained his overtures, dragging Otabek in again and again because he cannot get enough, because he wants. And Otabek, in the face of his filthy gorgeous personified destruction -- Otabek cannot always say no.)

In steady, even motions, he strips off his holster. The _schick_ of the gun cache is loud in the room, the same for the clink of the bullets as Otabek removes them one by one. Then the taste of metal is heavy on Yuri’s tongue as Otabek uses the weapon to force Yuri back onto the bed.

 _"I_ told you to stay here,” he says, low and cutting. Yuri grins around the barrel of a gun in his mouth. Otabek is unimpressed. “And I believe I already told you to listen when I command.”

(An empty threat, in the grander scheme of things; Otabek has no true authority to order Yuri around. But in this room, just the two of them, it is a different story.)

The gun is withdrawn and set aside. Otabek’s hand moves to drag through Yuri’s hair, bunching it up and tugging. And Yuri is so hard, quivering with want under those fingers.

“Seems I have to teach you a lesson, kitten,” Otabek say, and the heat in his words sets Yuri alight.

 

Yuri cannot think, cannot speak anything coherent. Otabek has him on his knees and bent forward, chest pushed into the mattress, hands tied behind him. The lace underwear hangs off one ankle. Every inch of his skin feels electric. Behind him, Otabek fingers him open, stretching and thrusting ruthlessly. Yuri squirms, writhes, pants; Otabek twists his wrist and takes Yuri apart.

It’s filthy and it’s exquisite.

His ass is lifted up, cheeks pink and stinging where Otabek’s hand had left their marks. His shoulders ache beautifully. His cock is impossibly hard, leaking onto his sheets.

This is what intoxicates him. Where JJ worships, touches with reverence, Otabek presses in with steel and roughness. Otabek does not treat him as something fragile or breakable, as someone too young or childish. Otabek does not hide his desire, his hunger, his raw devotion.

He mouths down Yuri’s spine, bites at the jut of his hips. When he withdraws his fingers, Yuri keens.

“Beka,” Yuri gasps. His hair is matted to his skin; he’s dribbling spit from his parted lips as he pants. But then a mouth is on his ass and Yuri has to muffle a scream.

Otabek eats him out meticulously, until Yuri is writhing and moaning into the sheets. One hand slips round to grip his cock, fingers teasing but otherwise unmoving. The tongue on his ass is relentless, until Yuri is a quivering, wanton mess. Until he’s on the brink and fucking himself back against Otabek’s face.

Yuri thinks Otabek’s going to let up right before he comes, but to his surprise, Otabek doesn’t stop. The hand on Yuri’s cock starts to move, quick strokes that match the thrust and circle of Otabek’s tongue. Yuri gasps, cries out, spills himself onto the sheets. And Otabek moves up, kisses Yuri’s shoulders as he strokes Yuri through it.

As he catches his breath, Yuri hears the tinny sound of a zipper being undone and the soft thump of Otabek’s clothes hitting the floor. And then those large hands are back on him, hauling his ass up and spreading his ass open. But Otabek stops short of pushing into Yuri, cock heavy on the crease of Yuri’s ass.

 _"Beka,”_   Yuri whines, trying to push back, but this time Otabek’s hands stop him, pinning him in place.

“What do you say?” he asks softly, deliciously. One hand reaches out to grab a fistful of Yuri’s hair and pulls, forcing Yuri’s back into an obscene and pretty bow.

“Please,” Yuri says breathlessly. He has little leverage in this position, but he tries anyway, desperate to feel Otabek inside and around him. Otabek only tugs on his hair again, digs fingers into Yuri’s hips.

“I asked what you’re supposed to say, _kitten,”_ he says; there’s a growl in his voice.

Yuri twists his head as best as he can, peering up at Otabek through half-lidded eyes. The hair not in Otabek’s hand is in disarray; there are marks all over his skin. His lips are red and slick with spit. His back is still pulled into a delectable arch. He looks thoroughly debauched.

“ _Please, Daddy,”_   he pants, hoarse and needy.

The first thrust is so good that Yuri screams.

Otabek fucks into him hard and fast, holding nothing back. The room is filled with the filthy noises of skin slapping against skin and Yuri’s litany of curse words and Otabek’s name. After a few minutes Otabek pulls out, yanks the tie off Yuri’s wrist, and flips the man around. Just as quickly he’s hauling Yuri’s ass up, legs hooked over his shoulders, and sinking back inside. Yuri’s hands scrabble for a hold on his pillows as he cries out.

“Yes, yes, _yes, Daddy,_ _fuck me_ _\--”_

Otabek groans through gritted teeth and surges forward, pressing sloppy kisses to Yuri’s mouth as he continues thrusting. And Yuri kisses back, rakes his fingers through Otabek’s hair, scratches his shoulders.

“Mine.” Otabek bites the word into the side of Yuri’s neck. “Kitten, you are _mine--_ ”

“Fuck--” Yuri’s second orgasm hits hard and fast; he throws his head back, Otabek’s name caught in his throat as he comes all over himself. And Otabek fucks him through it, not stopping until he’s followed Yuri over the edge and Yuri is sobbing his name.

 

They lie there afterwards, cooling off, having scrubbed off the come with a corner of one of the blankets. Yuri idly traces the tattoo that curls from Otabek’s shoulder down his back and to the side of his ribcage; Otabek watches, content to be touched and studied. The sky outside has dimmed; they’ll have to leave for dinner soon.

(Yuri will doubtlessly demand they take Otabek’s bike, take the roundabout ways through the streets. Otabek will never say no. Yuri Plisetsky is a hurricane, a force onto himself even at this young an age, Otabek’s perfect storm, and the man hates that he is so weak to this boy but cannot help it. It is how Yuri is, a beauty and steel that are crushing in their intensity.)

But for now, Yuri stretches like a lazy cat and burrows against Otabek, skin against warm skin. For now, Otabek forgets the distance that exists between them outside this room. Yuri kisses him, bruising and perfect and dangerous.

“Until next time,” he murmurs, baring his teeth.


End file.
